Lily and I were going to take Owen down to Wakulla for some swimming today but instead, I'm about to go get her and Owen and bring them out here.
Lily has the throw-up virus that Owen had. It hit her last night at work and she called me just a little while ago and was so worried that something is wrong with her pregnancy and when I reassured her that she simply has Owen's bug, she was vastly relieved.
At first I was just going to go get Owen so that she can rest but then she called back and asked if I could bring her some lavender oil which, when the babies were little, was my all-purpose treatment and ease for all-things-viral. And emotional, too, come to think of it.
"Come on, honey. Take a lavender bath. You'll feel better," I would say and they always did.
So I asked her if she'd just like to come out here too and take a lavender bath in the big tub and lay around while I play with her boy. She said, "Really? We could do that?"
Oh my heart. To still be needed.
Of course.
And so here I go, off to get the daughter, the grandson, to bring them back here. Maybe Lily will want egg-in-the-bowl, which is a soft boiled egg mixed up with pieces of buttered toast. And Owen will get to see the new chickens and the donk and the goats and the mule and he can help me clean out the hen house and it'll be fun.
Not what I thought I'd be doing today, but hell- healing waters, one way or another, either bubbling forth from a massive spring-head and cold as ice or in a big white tub with lavender oil and clean towels at the ready.
I like being a mother-and-grandmother. Let's face it. I do.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
This Ain't Reality TV, Babies. It's Just Reality
I'm so damn boring when I'm content. It's a sin. Well, it's not a sin and maybe that's why it's so boring. I just got through shelling a bunch of peas with Mr. Moon while we watched the episodes of American Pickers, American Restoration, and Pawn Stars where the entire focus of all three shows was a 1957 Chevy that Rick Harris of Pawn Stars wanted to give his old man for his seventieth birthday.
Almost made me cry and it was the second time I've watched it.
See- I am BORING! But I enjoyed it thoroughly and we shelled about half a bowl of peas and that's two people shelling for two hours. That's some labor intensive shit but every bite is worth it.
Actually, I'd started shelling before Mr. Moon got home and had watched about half an hour of The Real Housewives of New York.
It's okay. You can judge me. I'd judge me too but I could have taken a nap instead and yet, I did not, so factor that in too. I gotta tell you something- those Real Housewives are no more real housewives than I am a real pawn or porn star. Real in essence of being actual human beings, perhaps, but I have my doubts about that too.
But my point here is, I enjoyed sitting there on the couch with my sweetie and the dogs, shelling peas and watching TV. God, it's weird getting old.
Mr. Moon and I have spent quite a bit of time together in the past few days. We worked together on Saturday at my mother's old house and also went shopping at the Demon Walmart to get her a new set of sheets and a memory foam mattress topper. That was Mr. Moon's idea. We put that topper on her bed and made it back up for her and when she laid down on it to test it out she said, "I've never felt anything like that in my life."
Then she called me the next day to tell me how wonderful it was and how well she'd slept on it and that now all her friends want one too.
It's so odd to make my mother happy. I have to admit I like it. God knows I sure did try for a long time and then gave it up entirely and now, whatever I do seems to delight her.
Okay. So here's something that sort of tore my heart: When I was going through all the things tucked away in Chuck's baby book, I found the letters I'd written Mother when she was in the hospital having both Chuck and Russell. They used to keep women in the hospital for a week when they had babies. Now of course, you're kicked out after you take a good crap and they're sure you're not hemorrhaging. Sort of. But I'd written these letters to her and she'd put them in there with all the cards she'd gotten and in both letters, I reported that the baby clothes and sheets had been washed (by me, of course) and that although we missed her, we were doing fine.
I remember those times and yes, ostensibly, we were doing fine. I was twelve years old and not only doing the laundry (and no, we did not have a dryer) and the cooking but also being abused by my stepfather and when she was having Russell, the second baby, I was taking care of Chuck too. And of course attending the seventh and eighth grades.
I looked at those letters, at the immature handwriting of a twelve- and thirteen-year old, and I just wanted to go back in time and tell that serious little girl what an amazing job she did. That she was a very, very good girl and to PLEASE TELL SOMEONE ABOUT HER STEPFATHER BECAUSE THAT WAS SO VERY, VERY WRONG AND NOT HER FAULT, WHAT HE WAS DOING.
Well, you can't go back, can you? But you can reach down deep and find that child still inside of you and tell her. And I did. So there. And maybe, just maybe, that makes me feel a little bit better about the grown Mary, too. I don't know. I do know that sexual abuse is such a many-layered evil and just when you think you've gotten to the core, another layer presents itself.
But. There are gifts. Yes, there are, dammit, even though I wish I hadn't received them in quite the way I did. One of them is the gift of knowing that just because someone is imperfect, it doesn't mean that they aren't worthy of love. When I see someone who is, well, shall we say, deeply imperfect, there is part of me which wonders why- which feels sorry for whatever happened to make that person the way they are. And if the heart is good in that person, truly good, I can find some way to love them. I may not want them in my life on a daily basis (no, I've learned that lesson) but I can still find the good in them, still love them, because I've found the good in myself and learned to love it.
And hell, I live with myself on a daily basis which is sometimes easier than other times and knowing that Mr. Moon does too and still loves me is better than all the therapy in the world, although I am almost certain that if I hadn't gotten some therapy and done some healing he would have lost patience a long time ago and either left me or found a way not to be around me very much.
Okay. This is as scattered as the peas that pop out of their shell and fly across the room but I think you know what I'm saying. That although I am certainly not grateful for what happened to me as a child, I am very grateful for having had the opportunity and spirit to find some healing. To have this man to sit on the couch with and shell peas that we grew together in our garden. To finally be at some peace with my mother and I do not beat myself up for all the years I haven't been at peace with her. I swear to you- I do not.
She never had it easy. She may not have taken the situations given to her and made all the right choices but she did what she could.
Same as me. Probably same as you.
And now I'm going to go cook some of those peas and heat up last night's venison meatloaf which may have been the very best meatloaf I ever made in my life. And slice tomatoes from the garden and just be all damn thankful and shit.
That's me tonight.
And I just want to say that if you recognize yourself, your life in any of this, I'm sorry but here I am to say that things can be okay if you just keep on with it. This is real life, not reality TV, but real, true life. I may not drink Litchi martinis like those Real Housewives and I may not wear a size 0 and I may not have had an au pair for each of my children who spoke only French to the them but I have a real life and it's a damn good one.
And my kids have turned out better than fine and I am going to eat fresh tomatoes and peas tonight.
You bet.
Amen.
Hearts And Flowers. And Chickens
Monday morning and Mr. Moon wants me to make a correction. His tooth did not "fall out," it broke off. So. Okay. Correction made. Done.Right now he's on his way to town for a meeting with his broken off tooth in his pocket in search of tooth glue. I'm starting to think he looks pretty cute the way it is. I am not sure the rest of the world would feel this way. His dentist does not work on Mondays.
Ah lah.
But he perseveres. This is the kind of man he is. Today is the last day of grouper-fishing and I said to him this morning, "I don't know why you didn't just go fishing."
He sighed and said, "That's a good damn question."
Now I know without a doubt that you are all just dying for a chicken update. (That is sarcasm.) Anyway, here are the new ones all clustered up in the corner of the coop:
I am not sure that we don't have six roosters there. I hope not. One of the chickens has an extraordinarily long neck. He/she reminds me of an Anhinga, AKA, the Snake Bird. The former owners had called him/her Ozzy. So of course we are letting that name stick. We gave another of the birds the name of Sharon. We can tell which one it is and wouldn't you know that Sharon was the first out this morning and was the one to call the others out? I am thinking that either Sharon is a rooster or else, like her namesake, she is just the boss of the family.We named another one Jack and would have gone on to name another Kelly (these are the names of some of Ozzy Osbourne's family, in case you are scratching your head- You know, Ozzy Osbourne? Prince of Motherfucking Darkness?) but I know too many Kelly's and so cannot name a chicken Kelly.
Whatever, the naming process has begun. Actually, Kathleen started it yesterday by reminding me that black-eyed susans are indeed golden and black so the speckledy chicken is now Susie.
Four down, two to go.
Kathleen and her darling nephew Christopher came over yesterday so that we could meet the newest member of Kathleen's family, Ednarose. Ednarose is a very young black lab puppy and is about the cutest thing I've ever seen. She looks like a bear cub and I sort of wanted to tuck her under my shirt and keep her but then again, I know she is keeping her mama up all night long and I am not about to take on anything which is going to interrupt MY sacred sleep so I handed her back with one last kiss on her fuzzy little bear cub head.
Anyway, it's a fine morning in Lloyd, not too hot, and I need to get out and take a walk. The garden is suffering horribly from lack of attention and everything is going to hell in a handbasket out there except for the weeds which are so tall that Owen can barely make his way through them without a compass. By the way, Owen is doing very well. I talked to his mother last night and could hear him in the background, clomping around with one high heel on saying, "Hello," "Good-bye," and then demanding food. So he's back to normal.
Anyway, the only things of any real value in that garden now are Bethany's flowers and gourds.
I have GOT to get out there and pick the rest of the beans to shell. I will. I will.Ms. Spider is growing at a remarkable rate. She is going to be huge! If Mr. Moon doesn't run into her web and bring her down.
I think she is a beauty!Ah, it's just a pretty day in general and here I am in the middle of all these trees and critters, enjoying the fact that's it a bit cooler, everything green and thriving, happy to be.
My coffee tasted especially good this morning, my smoothie seemed exceptionally sweet.
It may be Monday but it's working for me.
Good morning from Lloyd, Florida. Good morning!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
One Woman's Treasure...
My Grandmother, Ruth Alexander, my grandfather, James Alexander, and my mother.
No. I don't know what year. I'm thinking...1945?
Lookout Mountain, Tennessee
It has been a full day of small things. I spent hours reorganizing cedar chests so that the pictures I have brought home can be kept safely and I have gone through so many of the pictures, as I said. I have thrown out a lot of stuff and have a box of things for Goodwill, a box for my brother. There is absolutely no change that you can see but still, there has been change. Good change.
I am finding, in going through my mother's things that I am learning a great deal about what to keep and what to throw away or pass on and I have been acting on that information for awhile now. The lessons that really got hammered home today for me are:
1. You will ALWAYS order too many of your children's school pictures and family portraits. Always. And then they will be stuck in a box somewhere, waiting to be freed, waiting to shower guilt on someone who will have to deal with them forty years from now. So go for the smaller package when ordering prints. I am giving you wise advice here.
2. When you go on a trip, do not take so many damn pictures. No one in this world will want to see them except for you, and even that is doubtful. I have thrown away entire rolls of prints today of pictures of various mountains and cathedrals and monuments and ocean views- all horrible shots, none of them the least bit interesting. Make memories, not necessarily photographs. And if you DO take photos from a trip, label them.
3. Label everything. I also threw away so many beautiful old black and white shots from the forties and fifties of friends of my mother's which I know at one time were important to her but are of no use to me or anyone I know at all. Put dates on things. And if you lose interest in a picture, or pictures, throw those away or delete them. JUST DO IT! Remember- this is your own history we're talking about and if it's not important to you, don't clutter up someone else's life with it.
4. Please. All of us should try to still use paper and pen and the post office at times. We may all still be communicating fifty-ways to Sunday but not in ways that will ever be discovered and reread in the future. In my brother Chuck's baby book I found cards and notes from people I remembered so well from my childhood. People who have almost achieved mythological status in my mind. To find notes from them, written in their own hands- well. It was something. I kept one that means everything in the world to me and will mean nothing to Chuck. When I die, it won't mean a thing to anyone and it'll be thrown away with my blessings. I found a letter that Mr. Moon wrote in 1987 declaring his love for me to "the world." I slapped that puppy in a frame. You bet! And you know what? One of my kids WILL want that. Maybe his or her kids won't, but that's fine.
5. Don't buy fucking crap. Crap, crap, crap that we all throw into drawers and end up in land fills. Cheap flashlights and fans and windchimes and gardening tools and flower pots and FUZZ SHAVERS. You know what I'm talking about. Sure, it's fun to go to Walmart (demon of the universe) and buy cheap crap but better to save your money and buy stuff that your kids might actually want someday and that will give you real pleasure as you use it. I'm talking about good knives, nice crystal, real picture frames, real jewelry, good clocks, nice linens, etc. And USE THEM for your own pleasure. Don't just put them away in a drawer. If you can find them in thrift stores or pawn shops or antique stores, all the better. Believe me- I know this for true- people donate some very fine things to Goodwill because they are just desperate as shit to get rid of things.
And finally:
6. Do not assume you know who your parents are or have always been. You have no idea. I found a note written on a box by my mother a long, long, long time ago. It said, "This is a new pen. I love it."
That amazed me. I have always loved good pens and been obsessed with finding the best ones I can and some of my children have the same obsession but I never, ever knew my mother to use any pen except whatever freebie/cheapo pen was at hand. Or a pencil. And yet- at some point in her life, she loved good pens.
Who knew? Not me.
But now I do.
And dammit, I sort of wish I had that pen.
And I really wish I knew more about the relationship between that man and that woman up there at the top of this post. My mother's parents. I knew them as a child, I lived with them, and yet, what I know about their life together or as separate beings before that is ridiculously small.
Well. It's been a good day. A full day of small things.
And now I need to make our supper.
Life is interesting, y'all. I swear it is.
For Ms. Sarcastic Bastard-Beloved, Especially
I have completely reached the point of hysteria in going through pictures.
I've gone from finding pictures of my grandparents when they were youngish and being in awe to finding pictures from the seventies that just prove the fucking point that EVERY FAMILY PORTRAIT belongs on the Awkward Family Photos website.
Oh dear god. But truly, the seventies had all the other decades beat when it came to matching poly costumes. Oh dear god. Luckily, I was already away from home when most of these atrocities took place.
I was already sort of laughing quietly to myself at some of the pictures I was finding in one certain box but then I looked down to see something that made me laugh so hard that tears really and truly did come to my eyes. I had to have Mr. Moon hold this picture to get the snap because I was shaking too hard with laughter to hold it still.
And maybe it's not that funny but right that second, it struck me as the funniest fucking thing I'd ever seen in my life.
Oh god. Oh god. It still does. White- I'm so sorry. It's not YOU I'm laughing at. It's just the absurdity of...that.
My head literally hurts from laughing.
Oh Jesus. I'm sorry.
But...
Poor thing. It's like he's been trapped in that envelope in that box, peeking out of that little window so cheerfully for decades and decades and decades.
Bless his heart. Oh. Bless his heart.
Change And Adaptation
So we did not go all the way to Gadsden County last night to get our new chickens but only as far as almost-Georgia down back roads in the dark, across to the west past the blues club we used to go to on Friday nights to dance and be bad under the pecan trees, on to the road that I lived on in 1975 which, at the time, was way, way, WAY out in the boonies and my ex-husband and I rented a shackish house from a woman named Willie May who lived right next door in comparative splendor in a new double-wide and her son lived across the street in a real brick house and he told me that I cooked like a black woman because when he came home at night he could smell the black-eyed peas and greens I was cooking, the cornbread.
That house was one fence away from the biggest, longest cow pasture in this area. Miles and miles and miles of pasture and yes, we treked those miles and we gathered mushrooms.
We were some of the only white people living in that area and were, I feel sure, a mystery to our neighbors, two hippies with a bulldog who ate like black folks. Not the bulldog. Us.
Anyway, that road now is not even nearly the same. One huge development after another has sprung up. There are traffic lights and businesses and gas stations. There's a Target a few miles down the road. The only store when we lived there was right there where the Target is now and it was run by mean white-folks who wouldn't let me or my ex write a check even though the sign above the cash register said, "Local checks only," and our checks were local.
Fuck them.
They were fat and ugly.
Well, I wonder where they are now.
But I don't really care.
So we drove down those roads in the dark and my old house is there although where Willie May's trailer was is now a house and Muzz's juke joint is closed and dark and Smittie's Club is a Mexican Restaurant.
The people who raised these new chickens live even farther out in the still-real boonies, a swampy wooded area, and the pen their chickens were living in was a cougar pen. I'm not kidding you. They were the nicest people and they loved those chickens. It was their first venture in chicken-raising and they were just like we were two years ago when we first got chickens. They hated to give them up but they're moving to a place where they can only keep a few hens and so they had to get rid of some of their flock of fifteen. We waited until the chickens were on the roost and Mr. Moon and I reached in and grabbed them, one by one, and chose our six and then helped them load up the rest that they were taking up to Thomasville today. They were shy of grabbing the chickens themselves, afraid they would hurt them.
We loaded up our new birds in two dog kennels and drove back through the night, back down the back roads to home where we carefully set them out on their new roost and told them all goodnight and closed the door and came inside.
Then Mr. Moon lost a tooth. Yes. He did. A front tooth. One of the ones he just got a root canal on. This is just a fucking terrible thing. Not a tragedy. But still. He'll have to get an implant and those do not come cheap and he's understandably upset, although I would have probably just gone in, gotten a gun and killed myself.
Well, that's a little dramatic. But still.
And then, just as we were getting used to the reality of that situation, the phone rang. It was a little after ten-thirty. It was Lily. Owen was throwing up. No diarrhea, not much fever, just throwing up and it was freaking him out and freaking out his parents. The child has never really been sick in his entire 22 months of life which is unheard of and so none of them had any experience with such goin's on. And it's scary to see your usually boisterous child so listless and sad. I remember it well. You want to DO something, to give him something to make it all better, to restore him to his natural, blooming, healthy self and yet, there is nothing to do but hold him and clean up when he vomits and comfort him and wait out the period of time it takes for the virus to run its course, which is probably what's going on. He didn't even want his nursies, he just wanted to be held.
I talked to Lily just now and he hasn't thrown up since 12:30 last night and although he is still tired, he's asking for food and so she's given him some PowerAde with water and some smoothie and toast and he's keeping things down. He's watching Barnie videos and that sounds like the road to recovery to this old grandma.
I cleaned up the kitchen after I talked to Lily last night and put away a few of the things we'd gotten from Mother's. I took the strangest things. All of the pictures, of course, two crystal jam dishes with lids and spoons, too beautiful to give away. A crystal relish tray which could well have been a wedding present when my mother married my father. I have no idea but it will look lovely on Thanksgiving. I also took some carved wooden animals from Africa, a giraffe, a rhino, a jaguar, a zebra, an elephant. I put these on a shelf where Owen can get to them because I think he will be entranced with them. They are simple things but they have a ju-ju to them which I think he will feel.
So here we are, on a Sunday morning, we've separated out the chickens so that our old ones are outside and have access to the hen house for laying and the new ones are in the coop, eating and drinking. Poor things. The train has gone by three times this morning already and they flap their wings and run around when it does but then they settle right back down to scratching in the dirt. We're trying to fit new/old things into the spaces we have and with the case of Mr. Moon's tooth, growing a little accustomed to something missing where there was something in that space and it will be fixed soon.
Elvis keeps coming back to the coop to stand and stare and I am sure that Mr. Moon's tongue keeps searching for that missing tooth and it's overcast and the crickets are chittering. I know there is much I should be doing and slowly, I will get to it.
Sunday in Lloyd. I guess if the Church of the Batshit Crazy has a message today it would just be that life is a constant adjustment to new realities. Some things, like tummy bugs, will resolve on their own and will be forgotten in a few day's time. Other things require patience to resolve, such as the joining of the flocks. Some things take reorganization. Some things take money to deal with because there can be no real adjustment if there is any possible alternative.
And some things take all three.
But life goes on and we do adjust because that's what humans do. As do chickens.
Here they are, my new lovelies. Of course, I hope they are all hens but I'm not bettin' the ranch on that one. Well, we shall what we shall see as things unfold and if nothing else, that unfolding is eternally constant.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
A Saturday Of Work
Mr. Moon and I have spent most of the day over at Mother's old house and it is mostly cleaned out. And I brought home way too much stuff and dammit! I did not want to do that! But what the hell do you do with old pictures?
Anyway, now we're off to Gadsden County to get some chickens. The theory goes that if we get them in the dark on the roost and bring them back here and put them in with our chickens in the dark, all will be well.
We shall see how this goes.
Anyway, Freddy's children's book is coming out and here's a video of the book. Of course he made a video of the book. His girlfriend, Vanessa Vandy did the illustrations. I think it is charming. He wants feedback so...give it to him! Let your kids see it? Tell him what they think? You can comment here and he'll read what you say.
Thank you so much.
More tomorrow, y'all. Hope all is well with you.
Anyway, now we're off to Gadsden County to get some chickens. The theory goes that if we get them in the dark on the roost and bring them back here and put them in with our chickens in the dark, all will be well.
We shall see how this goes.
Anyway, Freddy's children's book is coming out and here's a video of the book. Of course he made a video of the book. His girlfriend, Vanessa Vandy did the illustrations. I think it is charming. He wants feedback so...give it to him! Let your kids see it? Tell him what they think? You can comment here and he'll read what you say.
Thank you so much.
More tomorrow, y'all. Hope all is well with you.
How I Make Chicken And Dumplings
Leftovers from last night.
The way I make chicken and dumplings was inspired by a Weight Watchers recipe. It is virtually fat-free (so feel free to make 'em, Syd) and an entire meal in a bowl and delicious.
I don't really do recipes, per se, but here's how they go:
First I dump one of those big containers of fat free chicken broth in my big pot. Then I add water up to about halfway or so. In that I put four chicken breast fillets, skinless, boneless. I add several cloves of garlic, an onion sliced, several stalks of celery, cut up into bite-sized pieces, four or five carrots, peeled and sliced. Last night I added a bunch of green beans which I'd snapped into smallish bite-sized pieces.
Put all that on the stove and let it come to a boil, then simmer. I add, for spices, thyme, sage, a few bay leaves, some hot sauce, some soy sauce, salt and pepper. Do it like you like it. Probably best not to taste until the chicken is cooked. When the chicken is tender, remove it and let it cool off to the side and adjust your seasons and let everything keep simmering but with the lid off to reduce to the liquid. You want enough liquid but not too much. How to explain? Well, I can't. Besides, it's not going to matter that much. You eat this in a bowl with a spoon and fork anyway.
Add a half pound or so of sliced mushrooms to the broth as well if you like mushrooms. Portabellos are good. So are the regular old white mushrooms. You can add peas if you want. Whatever. Make it yours.
When the chicken is cool, tear it up into shredded bite-sized pieces and put it back in the pot with all the vegetables. Let that simmer for a few minutes.
Get a jar with a lid on it or a bowl and put about a quarter of a cup of regular flour in there. Add water and either shake it with the lid on or wire-whisk it in the bowl to make a smooth paste. Stir that into the pot and let the liquid thicken. You don't want gravy here, you want thickish-liquid.
While that's going on, get out another bowl and put about a cup and a half of self-rising flour in it. Add about a half teaspoon of baking soda. Then add enough buttermilk to make a thin dough. Not like pancake batter- thicker than that. Maybe like whipped cream. Sort of. Stir it all up with a fork. With a spoon, put about tablespoon-sized amounts of this dough/batter into the simmering pot. You can cover the entire surface. Put the lid back on and let those dumplings cook. I turn mine over, halfway through the cooking. This only takes about fifteen minutes.
Done. Serve in nice, shallow wide bowls making sure to get some chicken and and some of all the vegetables in the there with a few dumplings. Serve with hot sauce.
You can add a salad or some greens on the side or whatever you want. Don't add anything if you don't want. It's all in that bowl anyway.
Mr. Moon ate three bowls. You may too. We will eat it again tonight which is good because I think we are going to go get some new babyish chickens this evening around supper time. I may have to make more dumplings tonight when I heat it up. This works fine.
More on the chickens later.
Have a lovely Saturday!
Yours truly...Ms. Moon
P.S. If you are using a tough old rooster as your chicken instead of store-bought boneless, skinless breasts, you're going to have to cook that thing a LONG time. That's okay. Eventually, it will be more than fit to eat.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Friday Night Front Porch
Martini Time. How darling is this man?
The charm which protects us which was sent to me from my friend K. when he was in Turkey. She hangs over the front door. So far it's working lovely. Knock wood and every other sort of superstitious gee dee bullshit. I love it.
A queen banana spider. She is living and has vanquished two others who attempted to live in her space.We shall chart her progress as summer unfolds.
The collards are cooking as are the chicken and vegetables. I do not make the traditional southern chicken and dumplings which are basically (to my mind) chicken and broth and rather gooey noodles. My chicken and dumplings have chicken, celery, onions, garlic, green beans, carrots and mushrooms. And big puffy dumplings.
The more vegetables the better. The puffier the better.
And that's all I'm sayin'.
Hey! Laughter IS The Best Medicine
Ah. It's turned out to be a good Friday. After I put down the Fabuloso bottle, I took a walk which was quite satisfactorily punishing. Then I came home and showered and even put on some make-up and met my son at the Mockingbird Cafe so that we could dine AND see Sister May.
It was awesome. WE HAD A TWO-HOUR LUNCH! And that's not easy to do if you're not drinking.
I went nutso-crazy. I had a sandwich with blackened eggplant and fried green tomatoes and delicious sauce and feta cheese. Oh my god. AND sweet potato fries. I am still full.
There was a table next to us and a mother had brought in her new baby. Very new. Tiny, darling little scrunched-up, baby-face new. The women at the table were joyfully passing him around and sharing him. It was like there was a huge magnetic force to him that I was having to physically resist. The mother kept looking at me as if she was afraid I might go snatch the child.
It could have happened.
But I was strong! I resisted!
I told Hank that maybe if I just went over and sat in one of the chairs they'd pass him to me.
Hank said, "He's not a joint, Mom."
Haha! I love that boy.
After lunch Mr. Moon called. He was coming home and wanted to know where I was. I told him that I'd just finished lunch and that I was going to go by the store and then come home too.
"What do you want for supper?" I asked him, which as we ALL know, is a waste of breath.
"I just ate lunch," he said. "I'm too full to think about that."
"I am too!" I said. "But somebody has to."
"Uh-huh," he said. "See you when you get home."
So I did go to the store and I decided on chicken and dumplings which I have not made in forever and maybe some collards since I still have some in the garden. I got everything and came home and was delighted to find that I'd bought everything on my list which of course I had forgotten to take with me. I put everything away and then had a lovely little nap with my husband and when he woke up I said, "I don't want to get up yet. Go out and pick collards and cook them and make the chicken and dumplings."
"Okay," he said, getting out of bed. "I'll call you when they're ready."
I thought about this for a minute.
"I can't sleep that long."
Okay, in my house that passes as very funny stuff. I swear though, if Mr. Moon DID cook, he'd have to start in the morning if he was making supper.
Well, it's Friday night. Luckily he can make martinis, even if he can't cook. It has rained, it's not terribly hot, and I guess I'll go out there and pick those collards. Maybe I'll find a baby in one of them. Down south we get babies out of collard plants, not cabbages.
That's a joke! We don't really!
But it reminds me that yesterday when Owen and I were picking beans, he picked marigolds and threw those in the bag too. Then he picked some more marigolds and started decorating the collard greens with them. He's a funny boy and I sure do love him.
Right now I pretty much love everything but give me a few hours. I'll start hating again.
Or maybe not.
We'll see what the full moon does to me, whether it makes me howl in pain or passion. One never knows.
Let's all think about each other when we see it. Okay? Okay.
Love...Ms. Moon
It was awesome. WE HAD A TWO-HOUR LUNCH! And that's not easy to do if you're not drinking.
I went nutso-crazy. I had a sandwich with blackened eggplant and fried green tomatoes and delicious sauce and feta cheese. Oh my god. AND sweet potato fries. I am still full.
There was a table next to us and a mother had brought in her new baby. Very new. Tiny, darling little scrunched-up, baby-face new. The women at the table were joyfully passing him around and sharing him. It was like there was a huge magnetic force to him that I was having to physically resist. The mother kept looking at me as if she was afraid I might go snatch the child.
It could have happened.
But I was strong! I resisted!
I told Hank that maybe if I just went over and sat in one of the chairs they'd pass him to me.
Hank said, "He's not a joint, Mom."
Haha! I love that boy.
After lunch Mr. Moon called. He was coming home and wanted to know where I was. I told him that I'd just finished lunch and that I was going to go by the store and then come home too.
"What do you want for supper?" I asked him, which as we ALL know, is a waste of breath.
"I just ate lunch," he said. "I'm too full to think about that."
"I am too!" I said. "But somebody has to."
"Uh-huh," he said. "See you when you get home."
So I did go to the store and I decided on chicken and dumplings which I have not made in forever and maybe some collards since I still have some in the garden. I got everything and came home and was delighted to find that I'd bought everything on my list which of course I had forgotten to take with me. I put everything away and then had a lovely little nap with my husband and when he woke up I said, "I don't want to get up yet. Go out and pick collards and cook them and make the chicken and dumplings."
"Okay," he said, getting out of bed. "I'll call you when they're ready."
I thought about this for a minute.
"I can't sleep that long."
Okay, in my house that passes as very funny stuff. I swear though, if Mr. Moon DID cook, he'd have to start in the morning if he was making supper.
Well, it's Friday night. Luckily he can make martinis, even if he can't cook. It has rained, it's not terribly hot, and I guess I'll go out there and pick those collards. Maybe I'll find a baby in one of them. Down south we get babies out of collard plants, not cabbages.
That's a joke! We don't really!
But it reminds me that yesterday when Owen and I were picking beans, he picked marigolds and threw those in the bag too. Then he picked some more marigolds and started decorating the collard greens with them. He's a funny boy and I sure do love him.
Right now I pretty much love everything but give me a few hours. I'll start hating again.
Or maybe not.
We'll see what the full moon does to me, whether it makes me howl in pain or passion. One never knows.
Let's all think about each other when we see it. Okay? Okay.
Love...Ms. Moon
Strange, But True
So while I was dreaming of screwing up by not being able to find my costume and make-up in the car which I could not find, MR. MOON WAS DREAMING THAT HE WAS SCREWING UP BY NOT BEING ABLE TO FIND HIS BASKETBALL UNIFORM AND SHOES WHICH WERE IN A CAR THAT HE COULD NOT FIND AND HE WAS GOING TO GET KICKED OFF THE TEAM!
I am not kidding you.
How weird is that? Maybe he has The Raybees too.
I am not kidding you.
How weird is that? Maybe he has The Raybees too.
Maybe I Have The Raybees (Yes, I Meant To Spell It Like That- Thanks, Ms. Radish King)
Could someone please just come and slap me?
Either that or send me off on vacation.
One or the other.
Dreamed that I was dreaming again. Prayed that I was dreaming. I'm not even IN a performance at the Opera House right now and I dream that I am screwing up performances by not being able to find my costumes or make-up which are in my car which I cannot find. No. I can't find my fucking car because I parked somewhere in a city. Monticello is about three blocks wide. What do I think? That I'm performing in downtown Chicago?
I won't even go into the fact that I'm not really sure what play we're doing or have any idea what my lines are OR the other stuff which I can't talk about here because Lord Have Mercy.
I feel as crazy as wisteria blooming in July. By the way, if I don't get out there and trim that damn wisteria I am going to wake up entangled in its tendrils. It's already growing up under the wall of the house. It's already growing up into the pecan tree, pulling it down and taking it over.
I got nothing else to tell you today. I'm crazy.
Then I think about Michele Bachmann and I feel pretty much better in the mental illness department.
But I have to tell you- the fact that she's a serious candidate for president makes me even crazier. And the fact that her from-all-outwards-appearances-gay-husband counsels men on how not to be gay and says that gay teens are Barbarians who need to be DISCIPLINED makes me INSANE LIKE I NEED TO KICK SOMEONE'S ASS!
All right. That's it from me today. That's me in the corner with no religion to lose, being all crazy and drinking Fabuloso (blue flavor) straight out of the bottle and alternately weeping and wanting to kick someone's ass.
Happy Friday, y'all!
Love...Ms. Moon
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Can Fabuloso Wash Our Sins Away?
Well, whatever the dead thing is, I am thinking it must be in the wall or under the floor because I cannot find it. From the area where I could detect the strongest odor (the epicenter of STINK, I should say) stands a chest of drawers which I keep sewing things in. Well, to be completely honest, mostly old scraps of cloth which are perfect for mice to burrow into and nest in and yes, I have seen mice in there and evidence of mice and so I felt sure that that's where some little furry critter had died.
But no.
I went through everything in there. I threw out three bags of scraps I will never ever use. I organized thread and buttons and pins and needles and all the stuff that needed organizing. I wiped out the drawers.
No dead bodies.
I moved on to a closet in the room which I also know has a mouse population. I cleaned it out. I weeded things from in there. Some for Goodwill, some for the trash. I found shoes I'd forgotten I had! Really cool ones, too. Which I haven't worn for years and probably never will again but that's another story.
No dead critters.
Whatever, I made a good dent in that room being tidied up and cleaned out.
Then I decided that since I was already sweaty and covered in mouse dust I might as well attack the closet under the stairs where all the paper had been shredded. Filled an entire trash bag with shredded wrapping paper. I have to tell you that mice are very, very good at shredding. Very good. Excellent shredders. In fact, save your money, don't buy a shredder and just put the things you want shredded in a closet where there are mice.
Perfect!
Then- what the fuck?
I cleaned up and mopped the kitchen.
I washed the sheets and towels and rugs and clothes.
Yes. I was a good little housewife today. And by the way- I totally recommend Fabuloso Tropical Scent! It's blue-colored. Don't let your kids drink it.
Although sometimes I wonder if Fabuloso is anything but water, coloring, and scent.
Whatever. I like it.
But now here's what I'm thinking about. I'm reading some not-great but entertaining novel in the Mommy-Lit genre and in it, the main protagonist is obsessed with trying to keep her house tidy. And she tells a friend that if her house is not tidy, then her life cannot be tidy or organized. The friend points out that perhaps it is the opposite- that a messy, messy life is not as easy to clean up as a house and so, in cleaning the house, she feels that she is doing something about her life, when actually, she is not.
Hmmmmmm...
I don't know. But I do know that the best and most organized as a housewife that I ever was occurred during a period of time when my life was absolutely shot through with depression, unhappiness, and problems out the yang. But boy! Was my house clean! I had a schedule. I cleaned everything in that house every week. I did love that house and I loved seeing it shine but still. Looking back I realize that I was trying to create order in the house in order not to deal with creating order in my chaotic life.
Ah well. Whatever. Perhaps I DO have things I need to deal with and am not, but cleaning the house isn't hurting a damn thing and it does give me a great deal of pleasure to see my floors swept and mopped and to know that there is a bit less detritus that should I die tonight someone would have to deal with.
Oh, there's still plenty! But a bit less.
Now. If I can just attend to that mending that was piled up on the dresser I cleaned out today then I will truly feel as if I have accomplished something. It may be a false feeling but at least every time I walk by there, I won't have the guilt of not having done it invade my mood.
No. I did not find the dead thing but the smell is not horrible. And the smell of Tropical Scent Fabuloso is pervasive and as Hank pointed out, if the dead thing IS in the walls or under the floor, the smell will go away in a week or two.
I am an imperfect being. But even imperfect beings enjoy a tidy house. Or a tidier one, in my case, because believe me- this house is never going to be really and truly tidy unless someone wins the lottery and can hire a full-time housekeeper. And the dogs die.
All right! That's it! That's all I have to ponder about at this moment. If there's anyone in this world who can take something as mundane as cleaning out some shit and turning it into a philosophical and psychological study as I can, I've yet to meet them.
Carry on.
Yours Truly....Ms. Moon
But no.
I went through everything in there. I threw out three bags of scraps I will never ever use. I organized thread and buttons and pins and needles and all the stuff that needed organizing. I wiped out the drawers.
No dead bodies.
I moved on to a closet in the room which I also know has a mouse population. I cleaned it out. I weeded things from in there. Some for Goodwill, some for the trash. I found shoes I'd forgotten I had! Really cool ones, too. Which I haven't worn for years and probably never will again but that's another story.
No dead critters.
Whatever, I made a good dent in that room being tidied up and cleaned out.
Then I decided that since I was already sweaty and covered in mouse dust I might as well attack the closet under the stairs where all the paper had been shredded. Filled an entire trash bag with shredded wrapping paper. I have to tell you that mice are very, very good at shredding. Very good. Excellent shredders. In fact, save your money, don't buy a shredder and just put the things you want shredded in a closet where there are mice.
Perfect!
Then- what the fuck?
I cleaned up and mopped the kitchen.
I washed the sheets and towels and rugs and clothes.
Yes. I was a good little housewife today. And by the way- I totally recommend Fabuloso Tropical Scent! It's blue-colored. Don't let your kids drink it.
Although sometimes I wonder if Fabuloso is anything but water, coloring, and scent.
Whatever. I like it.
But now here's what I'm thinking about. I'm reading some not-great but entertaining novel in the Mommy-Lit genre and in it, the main protagonist is obsessed with trying to keep her house tidy. And she tells a friend that if her house is not tidy, then her life cannot be tidy or organized. The friend points out that perhaps it is the opposite- that a messy, messy life is not as easy to clean up as a house and so, in cleaning the house, she feels that she is doing something about her life, when actually, she is not.
Hmmmmmm...
I don't know. But I do know that the best and most organized as a housewife that I ever was occurred during a period of time when my life was absolutely shot through with depression, unhappiness, and problems out the yang. But boy! Was my house clean! I had a schedule. I cleaned everything in that house every week. I did love that house and I loved seeing it shine but still. Looking back I realize that I was trying to create order in the house in order not to deal with creating order in my chaotic life.
Ah well. Whatever. Perhaps I DO have things I need to deal with and am not, but cleaning the house isn't hurting a damn thing and it does give me a great deal of pleasure to see my floors swept and mopped and to know that there is a bit less detritus that should I die tonight someone would have to deal with.
Oh, there's still plenty! But a bit less.
Now. If I can just attend to that mending that was piled up on the dresser I cleaned out today then I will truly feel as if I have accomplished something. It may be a false feeling but at least every time I walk by there, I won't have the guilt of not having done it invade my mood.
No. I did not find the dead thing but the smell is not horrible. And the smell of Tropical Scent Fabuloso is pervasive and as Hank pointed out, if the dead thing IS in the walls or under the floor, the smell will go away in a week or two.
I am an imperfect being. But even imperfect beings enjoy a tidy house. Or a tidier one, in my case, because believe me- this house is never going to be really and truly tidy unless someone wins the lottery and can hire a full-time housekeeper. And the dogs die.
All right! That's it! That's all I have to ponder about at this moment. If there's anyone in this world who can take something as mundane as cleaning out some shit and turning it into a philosophical and psychological study as I can, I've yet to meet them.
Carry on.
Yours Truly....Ms. Moon
Inspiration
I am so undergroomed right now that I am thinking of just dying my facial hair black and calling myself Frida. It worked for her, right? And it's all in the earrings, right?
Sigh.
Here I am with an entire self-proclaimed day of whatever I want before me. Self-proclaimed because I am a stay-at-home grandmother and housewife, and thus, my own boss. Hahaha! Everyone is the boss of me. Owen, especially, as I have noted here recently. But he is with his mama today and thus, for the moment, at least, no one is here to boss me. Except for the dogs and the chickens, of course. And the house. The house is the boss of me. And the laundry. Definitely the laundry is the boss of me.
We watched about fifteen minutes of Roseanne Barr's new show on Lifetime last night. I loved it. I think my husband was in horror. I finally got up and washed the dishes and said, "Here's the remote, honey. Watch whatever you want," because I knew that if I watched an entire hour of that show I would be transformed into a foul-mouthed old woman who grows things and wears overalls and says what she thinks without regard for anyone.
Oh wait.
I'm more than 3/4's there already.
God. I love Roseanne Barr. NO ONE is the boss of Roseanne Barr and thus, she is vilified and hated.
And loved. But not by the men I know. Mr. Moon's main complaint about the fifteen minutes we watched was that she was using the wrong kind of rifle to shoot at the wild pigs on her macadamia nut farm in Hawaii.
Then I took Mr. Moon a Skinny Cow chocolate ice-cream sandwich for him to eat while he was watching Buck Masters. Yes. There is a show called Buck Masters. And I washed the dishes. And then I went to bed.
I am not Roseanne. Hey! She has a cute boyfriend. I hope he's not an ass.
Poor Mr. Moon. He is working SO hard this week. And you know what I packed for his lunch? (This is so sad.) Leftover green beans and potatoes. A nice salad. And a small piece of leftover frozen organic vegetarian pizza and a string cheese. Yes. I packed Mr. Moon a string cheese.
That was all the damn protein I had in the house. I'm sorry. They are going to laugh at him in the break room today.
Well, I have a feeling that if I had watched the whole episode of Roseanne's show, I wouldn't have packed him a lunch at all. I would have said, "Go out and eat your fucking lunch in a restaurant like normal adults!" and then I would have spat upon the ground to give that definitive emphasis to my words.
And boy, would I have regretted THAT.
We can't all be Roseanne.
Or Frida.
But we can look to them for inspiration. And Katherine Hepburn and Harriet Tubman and Hilary Clinton and Madonna and hell, you can even look for inspiration in Lady Gaga if you want. Whatever it is that you need to find within yourself to keep on going. Or the lady next door or across the street or your mother's next door neighbor at the Assisted Living place or your best friend or your children or even your husband. If he inspires you.
Which mine generally does and which is why I feel really bad that I only had string cheese to offer him today.
I'm already too hot today to be able to think properly. Thank god you don't have to think to do the motherfucking laundry. So I'm going to ask you a question- who inspires you?
Fictional characters definitely allowed.
Kisses...Ms. Moon
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Aspects Of Aging
It has occurred to me lately that I have become stale. And boring. Stale and boring.
Not only in life but here, too.
And I hate that. I could, of course, just start NOT BLOGGING! which would be the sensible thing to do but I am as addicted to this little square of cyberspace as I can be. It is where all of my thoughts tumble, although they do not all get into the final drafts. Yes. There are things I think about which I don't write about. Hard to believe, I know.
Maggie May wrote yesterday so cleanly and clearly and fiercely about how she shall not let her tongue be bound by the knowledge that what she writes might offend or shock others. Mostly her family. I admire her so for that. She has teen-aged sons and yet, she writes about passion in the sexual sense and every other thing you can imagine and I so wish I had her courage. To write about sex and passion and my body in more intimate ways than I do now would be freeing. Would be a step for all of us as we age, I think.
I think of how when I was a young hippie, nudity was something that just...was. It was part of life. We delighted in nudity. I am not saying that we all walked around stark naked all the time, I am just saying that sometimes it just happened and it was fine and we were all young and beautiful and bodies were something that we didn't exactly take for granted but we didn't freak out at the sight of either. There were hairy bodies and chubby bodies and skinny bodies and tanned bodies and pale bodies and large bosoms and small bosoms and and every size of every thing which humans have and as I recall, none of was disturbing. It was just part of the grand glory of human differences in form and shape.
I suppose we were just all in love with our bodies and sex was an easy thing then too. Oh sure, people got together and were monogamous but if they weren't in a relationship, if the notion took a couple, well...there was nothing stopping it. Love was still free. The pill had been invented, AIDS and Herpes had not been heard of. Crabs seemed to be the main downside to it and hell, who hasn't gone to the drugstore and bought Kwell?
It was all more or less a celebration of life. That sounds so trite.
Well, you drink a bunch of mushroom tea with a roomful of people you love and try NOT to celebrate life.
Does that sound ridiculous?
And no, it wasn't all Back To The Garden, either. There were hearts broken and feelers hurt (as my friend Sue used to say) and there was confusion. We were trying to make our own way with no example of how to do that.
But still. It was a noble experiment and there was a lot of joy, a lot of laughter, a lot of dancing, a lot of love.
And then...a lot of babies.
Oh my.
Well, and here I am, all these years later, as married and monogamous as a human can be. And with this old body that I would not skinny dip with unless I was sure that there was no moon above and no one around who might judge me.
That makes me sad.
Well, not the monogamous part. I am a person particularly suited to that practice. I am. Which, I suppose, makes me boring.
Ah lah. I don't even know what I'm saying here.
I'm so tired. Three days with Owen and my house is a disaster waiting for the Red Cross to show up with paper cups of water and perhaps a blood transfusion.
Not really. But sort of.
I am a grandmother! And when I was young, I did not want to hear about grandmothers' sex lives. I am quite sure that my grandmother did not have a sex life. She and my grandfather slept on twin beds in separate rooms in the farthest parts of their little house. She snored, according to legend. I can remember so well, seeing my grandmother settle for her nap, her little Shelton Stroller dress (I think she had three of them and she wore one every day) with the skirt pulled down as far as it would go, her little feet crossed as she laid on her back, her face so vulnerable without the glasses she wore with their huge, thick lenses, their big, black, ugly hearing aids in the ear pieces. She would lay on top of the covers with the fan rotating nearby and she would sleep under the picture her oldest son had painted when he was a child.
I have that picture in my bedroom now and I love it.
I can't imagine my grandfather asking for a nooner. The very idea makes me roar with laughter.
But who knows?
Oh. Who knows? Not me. The only physical affection I ever saw pass between them was...
Wait. I never saw any.
None.
Sometimes he would say, "Oh Mother, you're so cute."
But even as a child, it felt condescending to me, the way he said it. She certainly didn't giggle or reach her face up for a kiss.
And so here I am, again without an example of how things are done. My mother's marriages either ended in disaster or death and yes, she does claim to have a vibrator but I have no desire to hear any more about that.
Oh well. Something to ponder as I go pick up Owen's toys, finish the laundry, look for eggs, start supper, wait for that man to come home. The man I love and whom I would very much like to go away on yet another honeymoon with soon.
Well, here. I'll tell you this: When you get older and the kids move away, you'd think that you could swing like monkeys from the chandeliers at any time of the day or night and yes, you'd be right. But - the amount of energy one has for wild monkey sex diminishes. The amount of energy diminishes PERIOD, yet the duties and chores and responsibilities do not. So it is still good to get away and not have a thing planned except to be with each other. To enjoy. To remember what brought you together in the first place.
Which brings me back to the point I am right now which is the point of exhaustion. Which is stale and boring.
And it's time to make supper.
But I do know that when it's time for bed tonight, I will be glad to have that man beside me. The very fact that this morning when we got up, he reached over and kissed me was enough to carry me through this day.
I guess the main thing is always love, isn't it? Whatever that love is for, and especially if it's for the one you are partnered with, then that's it.
But I'd still like another honeymoon.
And that's all I'm saying today.
Love...Ms. Moon
Not only in life but here, too.
And I hate that. I could, of course, just start NOT BLOGGING! which would be the sensible thing to do but I am as addicted to this little square of cyberspace as I can be. It is where all of my thoughts tumble, although they do not all get into the final drafts. Yes. There are things I think about which I don't write about. Hard to believe, I know.
Maggie May wrote yesterday so cleanly and clearly and fiercely about how she shall not let her tongue be bound by the knowledge that what she writes might offend or shock others. Mostly her family. I admire her so for that. She has teen-aged sons and yet, she writes about passion in the sexual sense and every other thing you can imagine and I so wish I had her courage. To write about sex and passion and my body in more intimate ways than I do now would be freeing. Would be a step for all of us as we age, I think.
I think of how when I was a young hippie, nudity was something that just...was. It was part of life. We delighted in nudity. I am not saying that we all walked around stark naked all the time, I am just saying that sometimes it just happened and it was fine and we were all young and beautiful and bodies were something that we didn't exactly take for granted but we didn't freak out at the sight of either. There were hairy bodies and chubby bodies and skinny bodies and tanned bodies and pale bodies and large bosoms and small bosoms and and every size of every thing which humans have and as I recall, none of was disturbing. It was just part of the grand glory of human differences in form and shape.
I suppose we were just all in love with our bodies and sex was an easy thing then too. Oh sure, people got together and were monogamous but if they weren't in a relationship, if the notion took a couple, well...there was nothing stopping it. Love was still free. The pill had been invented, AIDS and Herpes had not been heard of. Crabs seemed to be the main downside to it and hell, who hasn't gone to the drugstore and bought Kwell?
It was all more or less a celebration of life. That sounds so trite.
Well, you drink a bunch of mushroom tea with a roomful of people you love and try NOT to celebrate life.
Does that sound ridiculous?
And no, it wasn't all Back To The Garden, either. There were hearts broken and feelers hurt (as my friend Sue used to say) and there was confusion. We were trying to make our own way with no example of how to do that.
But still. It was a noble experiment and there was a lot of joy, a lot of laughter, a lot of dancing, a lot of love.
And then...a lot of babies.
Oh my.
Well, and here I am, all these years later, as married and monogamous as a human can be. And with this old body that I would not skinny dip with unless I was sure that there was no moon above and no one around who might judge me.
That makes me sad.
Well, not the monogamous part. I am a person particularly suited to that practice. I am. Which, I suppose, makes me boring.
Ah lah. I don't even know what I'm saying here.
I'm so tired. Three days with Owen and my house is a disaster waiting for the Red Cross to show up with paper cups of water and perhaps a blood transfusion.
Not really. But sort of.
I am a grandmother! And when I was young, I did not want to hear about grandmothers' sex lives. I am quite sure that my grandmother did not have a sex life. She and my grandfather slept on twin beds in separate rooms in the farthest parts of their little house. She snored, according to legend. I can remember so well, seeing my grandmother settle for her nap, her little Shelton Stroller dress (I think she had three of them and she wore one every day) with the skirt pulled down as far as it would go, her little feet crossed as she laid on her back, her face so vulnerable without the glasses she wore with their huge, thick lenses, their big, black, ugly hearing aids in the ear pieces. She would lay on top of the covers with the fan rotating nearby and she would sleep under the picture her oldest son had painted when he was a child.
I have that picture in my bedroom now and I love it.
I can't imagine my grandfather asking for a nooner. The very idea makes me roar with laughter.
But who knows?
Oh. Who knows? Not me. The only physical affection I ever saw pass between them was...
Wait. I never saw any.
None.
Sometimes he would say, "Oh Mother, you're so cute."
But even as a child, it felt condescending to me, the way he said it. She certainly didn't giggle or reach her face up for a kiss.
And so here I am, again without an example of how things are done. My mother's marriages either ended in disaster or death and yes, she does claim to have a vibrator but I have no desire to hear any more about that.
Oh well. Something to ponder as I go pick up Owen's toys, finish the laundry, look for eggs, start supper, wait for that man to come home. The man I love and whom I would very much like to go away on yet another honeymoon with soon.
Well, here. I'll tell you this: When you get older and the kids move away, you'd think that you could swing like monkeys from the chandeliers at any time of the day or night and yes, you'd be right. But - the amount of energy one has for wild monkey sex diminishes. The amount of energy diminishes PERIOD, yet the duties and chores and responsibilities do not. So it is still good to get away and not have a thing planned except to be with each other. To enjoy. To remember what brought you together in the first place.
Which brings me back to the point I am right now which is the point of exhaustion. Which is stale and boring.
And it's time to make supper.
But I do know that when it's time for bed tonight, I will be glad to have that man beside me. The very fact that this morning when we got up, he reached over and kissed me was enough to carry me through this day.
I guess the main thing is always love, isn't it? Whatever that love is for, and especially if it's for the one you are partnered with, then that's it.
But I'd still like another honeymoon.
And that's all I'm saying today.
Love...Ms. Moon
Some Things Can Not Be Eliminated With Febreeze
Quite obviously, something has died in the guest room.
Do you know how much I DO NOT APPRECIATE THAT?
I should get my ass in there and tear the place apart.
But Owen is sleeping and by god, I'm going to nap too although whatever it is is just going to get deader and deader. And smell worse and worse. It's already bad enough that I'm wondering if the coyote that finished the rat/possum could be in there, maybe wedged up in a closet.
Sigh.
I do not have joy, joy, joy down in my heart.
Do you know how much I DO NOT APPRECIATE THAT?
I should get my ass in there and tear the place apart.
But Owen is sleeping and by god, I'm going to nap too although whatever it is is just going to get deader and deader. And smell worse and worse. It's already bad enough that I'm wondering if the coyote that finished the rat/possum could be in there, maybe wedged up in a closet.
Sigh.
I do not have joy, joy, joy down in my heart.
We Wake To This New Day
Owen's coming, Owen's coming, had sweet sleep. I just realized this morning that I don't think I've been to town since oh, last Thursday or so. This is crazy and yet...
Think of the gas I don't use.
I went shopping last night, online and it was all underwear and two new pairs of Crocs that I don't really need. Well, I need the underwear but not necessarily the Crocs but I love my two pairs of Clio slides so much that I live in fear I'll lose one or they'll break or whatever but they are the best, best, most comfortable shoes in the world, two tiny straps holding a sole onto my sole and oh my soul, how did I live without them?
You KNOW they'll quit making them.
Mr. Moon home last night late after working the auction in the Orlando heat for twelve hours, surrounded by asphalt as far as the eye can see. Finally- car orders. He fell in the bed and was asleep like that (click) and up this morning and out the door. That man works so hard.
Owen is coming, Owen is coming. The rooster is crowing, the rat/possum body is gone- do we have a coyote? I can't see that fat, lazy cat eating the rest of that corpse.
Owen is coming, he is on his way and he makes jokes now. He has a tiny horse that fits into his Fischer Price farm and he says, "Ride," and he puts the tiny horse on the floor and squats over it and then he laughs. Haha, Owen! My favorite thing now is to get him to say his own name, "Own," it sounds like. He owns that name. He tells me when he is tired. "Bed," he says and then, "Night-night."
Don't you want to eat lunch first?
"No," but we do.
Listen- this is it- the crowing rooster, the wisteria growing way out of bounds, the tiny joke, the little man, the hard-working man, the coffee, the kisses, the running water, the naked, early morning face of hello, hello, hello.
Owen is coming.
Good morning.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
This Is Florida, This Is Me
Summer time and the afternoon goes on forever, for as long as it is night time almost in the winter with heat and light and bugs and by the time the sun is truly down the chickens have been on the roost for hours and I'm exhausted.
I have sweat more and gotten more bug bites today than you can imagine and for some reason even my remote control is covered in tiny ants. I am not kidding you. There is a dead rat in the yard, as big as a squirrel. Well, he is all there except for his head. I had no idea my cat still had that in her- the will and ability to hunt a creature that big. I suppose it could have been a young possum. I am leaving the body for Mr. Moon to clear away. I will do toilets but he must do dead things.
My head hurts on top of everything. No pun intended. Owen and I were sweeping together, each with our own brooms and I bent down and my head hit the broom he was holding on the end and it wasn't his fault. It was one of those thing we call "an accident."
I feel useless but then I remember that I kept that boy alive all day long. And hydrated. And fed. That is something.
I am not going to the Opera House tonight. I feel no need to take my uselessness up there too.
Are we in the Dog Days yet?
I am panting.
Yes. I Am A Hippie.
Headline in the paper today:
Bear vs bicyclist incidents very rare
Panama City man recovering
Now THAT's reassuring. Right?
Then I found an article on the surge in the number of home births. Okay, that made me happy. But then I got to this line: "Robbie Davis-Floyd, a medical anthropologist at the University of Texas at Austin and researcher on global trends in childbirth, obstetrics and midwifery, said 'at first, in the 1970's, it was largely a hippie, countercultural thing to give birth outside of the hospital. Over the years, as the formerly "lay" midwives have become far more sophisticated, so has their clientele.'"
Well that just pissed me off.
Hell, yes, I was one of those hippie, countercultural women who chose to give birth at home and help other women do the same but does that make me less sophisticated than women who choose to give birth at home today?
I wish Robbie Davis-Floyd could see the midwifery texts we countercultural hippies used to order from England at great expense because there were no midwives to speak of in the USA and if there were, they used the English textbooks too.
Also the records we kept, hidden away because giving birth at home with a lay midwife was against the law. Also the equipment we bought with our own money from blood pressure cuffs to fetoscopes to Dopplers as technology improved.
We didn't just decide to have our babies at home to "stick it to the man" or be cool or whatever. We took a good look at the way hospitals were delivering babies in those days and said, "No thanks."
Enemas and restraints were still common place. A doctor who would allow your husband (and forget any other "partner" or doula or mother or friend) into the delivery room with you was considered crazy-cool. A woman who wanted to give birth unmedicated was considered insane. Babies were routinely whisked away to the nursery directly after birth so that the "experts" there could observe them for hours before allowing the mother to hold her child and nurse her. Episiotomies were given to every woman who didn't get a C-Section. Laboring women were not allowed out of bed and the only sustenance she was allowed for doing the hardest work a human can do was ice chips. All women were shaved before delivery the better to sterilize an unsterilizable area.
It was ridiculous.
It was as ridiculous as other things we hippies believed in like, oh, you know, civil rights, women's rights, whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables (many that we grew ourselves), solar energy, foods with no preservatives or additives, breastfeeding, and the possibility of finding alternatives to war.
Yeah. We were nuts.
Freaks.
Now the damn government's own dietary pyramid has been replaced with something that looks a lot like the typical hippie diet in 1976.
Bite me.
And yet- I am completely and utterly delighted that "sophisticated" women of today are choosing home birth because although some things have changed for the better in today's "traditional hospital" births, such as rooming-in, allowing the mother time to nurse and bond with her baby, allowing family to be with the mother, and fewer episiotomies (who knew that with a little patience a woman's vagina could DO that?), many things have gotten worse. The C-section rate has gone up tremendously. The notion that a baby MUST be born within days of her EDC causing more and more labors to be artificially induced which of course creates the need for more C-sections. The use of more and more ultrasound technology to try and predict birth weight which never seems to be accurate in the least but which is offered as proof positive that THIS BABY NEEDS TO BE BORN NOW!
When Lily was pregnant, the ultrasound doctor told her two weeks before she delivered that Owen weighed over ten pounds. He wasn't quite that two weeks later when he was born. That child in Texas where the mother had gestational diabetes and they told her the baby would weigh a whopping twelve pounds? He turned out to weigh SIXTEEN!
This is a particular bitch of mine, especially since I myself gave birth to Lily who weighed over ten pounds AT HOME and believe me- I am no giant of a woman. She was a gorgeous, very healthy baby and yes, there was shoulder dystocia and yes, the midwife and I handled it and no, I didn't rip or tear and yes, everything "down there" is still fine.
This is not to say that I am not incredibly aware of the need for medical technology in some birth situations. Of course there is and thank GOD it's there but for about 96% of births, it's not and yet each and every woman is treated as if it were which causes more problems than it prevents or takes care of and then more technology is needed to deal with those problems and, well, you get my drift.
We adopt technology which is unproven as to positive outcome and turn it into gospel (such as constant fetal monitoring) which only adds to the cost of childbirth.
Okay. I could go on here for days and I won't. But it was a powerful anger at the way the medical community dealt with women and babies and childbirth in general in the 1970's that propelled us to educate ourselves and decide to have our children at home.
And if women today are feeling the same, god bless 'em and I wish them all the luck in the world. But I would hope that these "sophisticated" women do, in fact, educate themselves and don't just pick a midwife out of the phone book and leave everything to her because the entire concept of choice must depend on knowing why a choice is being made. If there is anything in this world which deserves more knowledge and thus, power, it is childbirth.
And that perhaps they remember, as they are even ABLE to find a midwife in a phone book, that until we countercultural types demanded choices in childbirth, the very term "midwife" had almost disappeared from our language and the possibility of finding one was infinitely small.
The mother of modern midwifery, Ina May Gaskin, was as countercultural as could be found in the world and it was from that countercultural place, that place of not believing that just because something was said to be the right way to do things, it truly was that women began to educate themselves and open their eyes to better possibilities, the choices, the half-truths, the lies.
Now if we could just do something about war.
And bras. Oh my god. Could we do something about bras? Please?
As to the bears- well. I hear that bears vs bicyclist incidents are VERY rare. So don't worry.
And that's my soapbox speech for today.
Gotta go eat my whole grains and berries now. Owen's coming.
Love...Ms. Moon
Bear vs bicyclist incidents very rare
Panama City man recovering
Now THAT's reassuring. Right?
Then I found an article on the surge in the number of home births. Okay, that made me happy. But then I got to this line: "Robbie Davis-Floyd, a medical anthropologist at the University of Texas at Austin and researcher on global trends in childbirth, obstetrics and midwifery, said 'at first, in the 1970's, it was largely a hippie, countercultural thing to give birth outside of the hospital. Over the years, as the formerly "lay" midwives have become far more sophisticated, so has their clientele.'"
Well that just pissed me off.
Hell, yes, I was one of those hippie, countercultural women who chose to give birth at home and help other women do the same but does that make me less sophisticated than women who choose to give birth at home today?
I wish Robbie Davis-Floyd could see the midwifery texts we countercultural hippies used to order from England at great expense because there were no midwives to speak of in the USA and if there were, they used the English textbooks too.
Also the records we kept, hidden away because giving birth at home with a lay midwife was against the law. Also the equipment we bought with our own money from blood pressure cuffs to fetoscopes to Dopplers as technology improved.
We didn't just decide to have our babies at home to "stick it to the man" or be cool or whatever. We took a good look at the way hospitals were delivering babies in those days and said, "No thanks."
Enemas and restraints were still common place. A doctor who would allow your husband (and forget any other "partner" or doula or mother or friend) into the delivery room with you was considered crazy-cool. A woman who wanted to give birth unmedicated was considered insane. Babies were routinely whisked away to the nursery directly after birth so that the "experts" there could observe them for hours before allowing the mother to hold her child and nurse her. Episiotomies were given to every woman who didn't get a C-Section. Laboring women were not allowed out of bed and the only sustenance she was allowed for doing the hardest work a human can do was ice chips. All women were shaved before delivery the better to sterilize an unsterilizable area.
It was ridiculous.
It was as ridiculous as other things we hippies believed in like, oh, you know, civil rights, women's rights, whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables (many that we grew ourselves), solar energy, foods with no preservatives or additives, breastfeeding, and the possibility of finding alternatives to war.
Yeah. We were nuts.
Freaks.
Now the damn government's own dietary pyramid has been replaced with something that looks a lot like the typical hippie diet in 1976.
Bite me.
And yet- I am completely and utterly delighted that "sophisticated" women of today are choosing home birth because although some things have changed for the better in today's "traditional hospital" births, such as rooming-in, allowing the mother time to nurse and bond with her baby, allowing family to be with the mother, and fewer episiotomies (who knew that with a little patience a woman's vagina could DO that?), many things have gotten worse. The C-section rate has gone up tremendously. The notion that a baby MUST be born within days of her EDC causing more and more labors to be artificially induced which of course creates the need for more C-sections. The use of more and more ultrasound technology to try and predict birth weight which never seems to be accurate in the least but which is offered as proof positive that THIS BABY NEEDS TO BE BORN NOW!
When Lily was pregnant, the ultrasound doctor told her two weeks before she delivered that Owen weighed over ten pounds. He wasn't quite that two weeks later when he was born. That child in Texas where the mother had gestational diabetes and they told her the baby would weigh a whopping twelve pounds? He turned out to weigh SIXTEEN!
This is a particular bitch of mine, especially since I myself gave birth to Lily who weighed over ten pounds AT HOME and believe me- I am no giant of a woman. She was a gorgeous, very healthy baby and yes, there was shoulder dystocia and yes, the midwife and I handled it and no, I didn't rip or tear and yes, everything "down there" is still fine.
This is not to say that I am not incredibly aware of the need for medical technology in some birth situations. Of course there is and thank GOD it's there but for about 96% of births, it's not and yet each and every woman is treated as if it were which causes more problems than it prevents or takes care of and then more technology is needed to deal with those problems and, well, you get my drift.
We adopt technology which is unproven as to positive outcome and turn it into gospel (such as constant fetal monitoring) which only adds to the cost of childbirth.
Okay. I could go on here for days and I won't. But it was a powerful anger at the way the medical community dealt with women and babies and childbirth in general in the 1970's that propelled us to educate ourselves and decide to have our children at home.
And if women today are feeling the same, god bless 'em and I wish them all the luck in the world. But I would hope that these "sophisticated" women do, in fact, educate themselves and don't just pick a midwife out of the phone book and leave everything to her because the entire concept of choice must depend on knowing why a choice is being made. If there is anything in this world which deserves more knowledge and thus, power, it is childbirth.
And that perhaps they remember, as they are even ABLE to find a midwife in a phone book, that until we countercultural types demanded choices in childbirth, the very term "midwife" had almost disappeared from our language and the possibility of finding one was infinitely small.
The mother of modern midwifery, Ina May Gaskin, was as countercultural as could be found in the world and it was from that countercultural place, that place of not believing that just because something was said to be the right way to do things, it truly was that women began to educate themselves and open their eyes to better possibilities, the choices, the half-truths, the lies.
Now if we could just do something about war.
And bras. Oh my god. Could we do something about bras? Please?
As to the bears- well. I hear that bears vs bicyclist incidents are VERY rare. So don't worry.
And that's my soapbox speech for today.
Gotta go eat my whole grains and berries now. Owen's coming.
Love...Ms. Moon
Monday, July 11, 2011
When Mr. Moon Is Out Of Town
Child- I go wild.
I burn incense in the bedroom. I do the laundry and scrub the toilets.
I make a curry with onions, peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, leftover shrimp, carrots, garlic, peas, green beans, broccoli and sauce made of nutritional yeast.
Jump back, Jack. I cooked brown rice to serve all that craziness over top of.
I know. It's like I've lost my mind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)